


Escape From Asgard

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Comics), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asgard, Bigotry & Prejudice, Character Study, Childhood Friends, Complicated Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Not Thor: The Dark World Compliant, POV Fandral, POV Loki (Marvel), POV Third Person, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-17 10:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14830958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: In the aftermath of Loki's imprisonment, Fandral finds himself overtaken with strange moods. Ever and anon he has loved Asgard, the proud land that bore him, and yet suddenly he finds he can see naught but her imperfections, with neither satisfaction nor peace appearing on his horizons.Why had Loki attacked Midgard? Unable to reconcile his own rose-tinted memories of the prince in his youth with the haggard figure dragged back from Earth in chains, Fandral is forced to re-examine his own priorities, and where his loyalties truly lie.





	1. Chapter 1

Fandral finds himself of pensive mood.

Sitting alone on a stone bench in the gardens of Iðunn’s beauteous orchard, his hands loosely clasped in his lap, he looks into the still pools of the clear spring that rests between the cherry trees and that of the plums. It is not a large pool, perhaps twenty feet in diameter, and from it comes two separate streams, one trickling to the west and the other to the east.

In the gently babbling waters, its surface as still and shining as a mirror, Fandral sees his reflection wrought in silver. He sees the curls of his hair about his fringe, sees his moustache and short-cropped beard, sees the bright blue of his eyes: Fandral is a handsome man indeed, and near every maiden he meets sees fit to comment on the fact.

And yet it is not of a maiden Fandral thinks. No, no. He thinks of his royal highness, Prince Loki, son of Odin, dragged back from his monstrous assault upon Midgard in chains, a metal gag heavy over his mouth to keep him from using his silver tongue.  And where is Prince Loki now?

Why, in the dungeons beneath the great Palace of Asgard, where he belongs.

An ill wind blows, drawing itself through Fandral’s hair, and he sighs, watching the rippling surface of the spring. He and Loki had played here as children: he recalls the way he had laughed, utterly dazzled, as Loki had become one fish and then another, slithering through the water as if he too was liquid, and then a great snake, and then jumping from the waters, a wolf, shaking off the moisture clinging to his great furs.

Until the Allfather had arrived, and suddenly Loki was but a boy again, his fingers fisted in the grass, his head bowed as Odin chided him for so misusing his seiðr, using it to play and trick, when he had a weapon so mighty beneath his palms!

Fandral leans forward, picking up a flat stone from the green grass about his feet, and he flicks his wrist as he casts it over the surface of the spring: the stone skips merrily across the surface of the water, landing with a soft _thud_ on the other side, and the ripples make Fandral’s reflection indistinguishable from the reflection of the sky above.

He turns his head away, puts his thumbs through the loop of his high-waisted belt, and takes his leave of the orchard.

☾❅☼❅☉❅☼❅☽

Fandral loves Asgard.

This is the realm that birthed him, the realm that raised him, and the realm that has polished his golden heart to a shine. He so adores Asgard’s evergreen meadows, the wondrous yellow of Asgard’s fields of wheat, the sparkling blue of Asgard’s lakes and rivers. No place is greener, or yellower, or redder, or bluer, or more vibrant. Asgard glitters as the very crown of the universe, and everybody who lives here prospers.

Everybody but one.

“There used to be a portrait here,” Fandral says to a passing guard, and he gestures to the palace wall. There is a visible mark of discolouration where the great frame had once hung, showing where the canvas had blocked the light from the sun outside, but the wall is empty. He remembers the portrait well: Loki, smiling softly with his hand about the waist of the Lady Sigyn, and her own smile, her pink lips quirking up at their edges. The two of them wore silver and gold respectively, and easily one might imagine them as the next in line to the Asgardian throne. How long ago that had been. “To whence has it gone?”

“Burned, sire.” the guard says, shrugging his shoulders. “The Allfather commanded it.” Cold ice settles heavy on Fandral's golden heart, threatening to disfigure the metal. Even a Loki disgraced, surely, could be worth of redemption one day? Fandral’s fingers draw from the patch of clean wall to the darker piece outside it, moving smoothly from light to dark. Perhaps not.

“I see,” Fandral says quietly. “Be on your way, lad.”

☾❅☼❅☉❅☼❅☽

There is a crowd in the street, jeering and yelling as they jolt against one another and blocking the main marketplace. When Fandral moves toward it, his shoulders back and his head held high, the people part, shifting away from him. He surveys the messy circle that has formed around the two in the middle: a tall woman with a blade at her side, hissing and spitting as she kicks in the chest the fellow on the ground. He is pale and sickly-looking, his red hair lank about his face, and he lets out grunts of pain.

“Stop this!” Fandral orders, grabbing at the warrior’s arm and pulling her away, and she turns her snarl on him before she recognizes his handsome features, immediately stilling her strong form and giving a bow of her head.

“Sir Fandral,” she with great deference, her gaze fixated upon the ground.

“What is the meaning of this?” Fandral demands. When the warrior does not answer, he turns to the crowd. All of them have fallen silent, each of them staring uncertain at him or else at each other. “ _Tell me_ ,” he orders. After a long moment of silence, the warrior woman gestures with scorn to the lad upon the floor, who is coughing blood onto the stone.

“My dead husband’s brother, sir. He—” She lowers her voice and says, “He would fain dishonour my husband’s name, the argr that he is, and lay down with a man of the palace guard.”

“And the guard himself?” Fandral asks, grimly. “Is he next upon your rampage?” The warrior’s eyes widen, her lips parting, and she shakes her head hurriedly, evidently misunderstanding the source of Fandral’s irritation.

“Never would I lay a hand upon a member of the guard, sir, I—”

“Get out of my sight,” Fandral says, and he turns to the crowd – all peasantry, members of the city’s outer boroughs, all thirsty to see a man bleed. “All of you! About your business!” He is surprised by the biting snarl in his voice, as if he was born of wolves instead of Æsir, and all of them quickly hurry to disperse, muttering as they return to their homes or their places of business.

The warrior lingers, but Fandral ignores her, dropping to one knee in the dirt and putting his hand toward the young man laid prone. When he looks at Fandral, Fandral sees that one of his eyes is green and the other brown, and his heart aches as he remembers the form Loki had worn in their youth upon Midgard – how sharp his chin had been, how colourful is mismatched eyes, how red his hair. “Let me guess,” Fandral murmurs quietly. “Loki is your namesake.”

The young man lowers his gaze, and Fandral offers him his hand. Loki looks at his clean palm with distrust and uncertainty, blood dribbling down his chin, but then he takes it, and Fandral helps him to his feet. Reaching into his pocket, Fandral fishes out two golden coins from his purse, and he presses them into Loki’s hand. “One is for a healer, have them see to your ribs. The other is for a horse.”

“A horse?” the young man repeats, uncertain.

“Take passage to Alfheim. Asgard is no place for you: Alfheim will love you as one of their own. Men lie with men among the Ljósálfr, and no one bats an eye.” Loki stares down at the two coins in his hand, and then he stares up at Fandral. His left eye, the brown one, is swiftly bruising at its edges. Both eyes are wide with incomprehension: it occurs to Fandral not for the first time how uncomfortable it is, how strange, that the peasants of Asgard should live and die with lifespans no less negligible than that of the Midgardians, hardy but mortal, while men such as Fandral have lived for centuries upon centuries.

 _Wrong_.

“Thank you, sir,” Loki whispers, and his hand reaches to touch Fandral’s arm, but Fandral wrenches his arm away. There is only so much kindness Fandral can show without being tarred with the same fell brush.

“Go,” he says sharply. “Do not let me see your face again.” Loki’s expression crumples, grief showing in his mismatched eyes, and immediately he is walking away, heavily favouring his right side and clumsily pulling his cloak over his face. The warrior is staring at him, her lip curled in disgust, and Fandral arches an eyebrow. “What?” he asks, softly. “You would really have your brother-in-law die at your feet than travel to whence he shall be no trouble?”

“The Ljósálfr are perverts,” the warrior says, and she spits on the ground. She doesn’t make to chase after her brother-in-law, however, and that is all that matters.

“Who is to say what _perversion_ truly means?” Fandral replies evenly. His stomach turns, and he turns his face to the colouring sky. The sun is beginning to set on Asgard.

☾❅☼❅☉❅☼❅☽

Fandral brings his horse to a trot, and then brings him to a stop. Loki had always been frightened of Gilly, although why, Fandral had never been entirely certain. The man ever flinched away from any stallion, although he loved mares and foals, and so few were Loki’s genuine fears that Fandral had never seen fit to ask after it. There is a statue, out here in the woods – a small shrine.

Fandral does not often ride this way, and he recalls why immediately.

Odin stands tall, a great spear clasped in his right hand, and aloft in his left, he holds a great head by the air – some Jötunn warrior he had defeated in his youth. Odin’s face is unlined, and his long hair is braided loosely at his back, a victorious smile pulling at his lips.

How had Loki felt, Fandral wonders, when his Jötunn heritage had been revealed to him?

It had sickened him to his stomach when Thor had told the Warriors Four of his brother’s true heritage, and even as Hogun had muttered it made such sense, even as Volstagg’s lip had curled in scorn, Fandral had felt his golden tongue heavy and cold in his mouth. Loki, a Jötunn – and had they not invaded his very own realm, and killed Jötnar before him? Had they not scorned the Jötnar at every opportunity? How many stories had passed Fandral’s lips, or even Loki’s own, about the savagery, the horror, of the Jötunn tribe?

To be revealed as that which you revile, to learn you are the monster you have long since pledged yourself to destroy…

What tragedy.

“What, Fandral?” Sif had asked, nudging him. “Does it not make sense?” Sense! As if Fandral had been thinking of _sense_.

Taking a pot of ink from his satchel, Fandral hesitates, and then he throws it forward, uncorked. The black paint spatters over the youthful Odin’s face, blacking out the eye he lost not long after this statue was commissioned, dripping down his nose, his lips, his beard.

This is blasphemy. This is treason.

Breathing heavily, Fandral presses his heels against Gilly’s flanks, and he rides on quicker through the forest. He stares at the ink staining his fingers and the reins between his palms, and he wonders how it parallels the blood on his hands.

☾❅☼❅☉❅☼❅☽

“Pray, handsome Fandral,” says the maiden softly. Turning to meet her gaze, he tries to recall her name from the whirlwind of those about him this eve. Mabel, he thinks, as he looks at the fine plumpness of her full lip, the dark deepness of her brown eyes, the graceful curve of her jaw: how beautiful she is in the soft light of the tavern, so illuminated by the crackle of the fire. “You wear these rings… What do they mean, I wonder?”

Her two petite hands, so fair of skin and freckled with connected spots, hold the weight of his uncalloused, soft hand in her own – for always, Fandral has worn gloves for his fighting, and rubbed an ointment against his palms every night, that his hands will be kept soft for stroking the cheeks of a lover. He is a romantic, at heart. Two rings shine gold: a smaller, darker ring upon his smallest finger – his father’s signet ring, embossed with a bird in flight, and a thin band of corded gold about his ring finger. “Are you married, Sir Fandral?”

“Nay,” Fandral answers soft. “Although once was I wed to a maiden fair.” Mabel’s lips downturn at their corners, and she looks down at his fingers with concern and uncertainty.

“Tell me of her,” Mabel says, her tone sweet. The lass kneeling at Fandral’s feet leans forward too, her dark skin shining as smooth obsidian, her eyes even darker than Mabel’s own – Violet, maybe? Or Lilac? Lily? Something floral.

“Oh, tell me too, Fandral,” the flower so speaks, and Fandral’s lips quirk into a sad smile. He turns to look into the fire, watching the way it reddens the darker pieces of wood and charcoal, and he sighs: although his grief is true, this particular sigh is a well-practised one, and he knows it serves to pout his lips most handsomely, and make his eyes look ever deeper in their colour. He doesn’t need to look in Thor’s direction to know his fellow is rolling his eyes.

“Her name was Marian,” Fandral says, softly. “I fell through a portal some years ago and landed hard in the realm we call Midgard. Why, thence I spied her in the green forests of Nottingham: a fair princess, with hair in tresses of chestnut brown, and eyes of deepest blue. Her skin was white as milk, and her lips a perfect cupid’s bow – and to hear her sing! Why, she sang like a nightingale.”

“What happened to her?” the flower asks, taking hold of Fandral’s other hand.

A third hand, landing upon Fandral’s shoulder, brings his attention to another girl. She is dark-haired too, her green eyes deep with sorrow as she seems to comprehend the situation, and her brown skin shines gold in the firelight. “She died,” she whispers.

“Indeed she did,” Fandral says. “For I am of the Æsir, am I not? Do I not attend the Council of the Gods, amongst the noble caste? We live long, long lives, attained with the immortality afforded us by Iðunn’s apple. And my maid Marian, why, she did not. For a scarce sixty years were we together, and I saw her age before me… Yet with each passing day, she only grew more beautiful.” Fandral thinks of the way Marian had lain on her death bed, her eyes closed in sleep, and he thinks of the way he had buried her, alone on a rainy night.

“You miss her?” Thor asks, and Fandral turns to look at him. For the first time in near one thousand years, he seems as if he has been moved by Fandral’s tale, and his lips are frowning, his eyes clouded with thought. “Even now?”

“As if I lost her this very morn,” Fandral replies. “T’is a dreadful thing, to give one’s heart to a mortal. How it aches when she is gone from you.” A shadow passes over Thor’s face, and Fandral realises all at once what ails him – his lovely Jane Foster, down on the planet below. Thor has lain with mortal women before, of course, but none has so assailed his heart. “Fair ladies, I am sorry – I must take a short walk.”

“Have you need of a companion?” one of them says, he knows not which.

“No, no,” he murmurs, offering a _pleasant_ smile. “I fear I must promenade alone.”

☾❅☼❅☉❅☼❅☽

Fandral stands alone in the wood, and he realises immediately his mistake. He stands in a familiar clearing, surrounded by spruce and aspen, and he looks up at the sky. Although it is fairly damp, no clouds hide the stars from him, and allowing him to see them quite clearly. One night, many years ago, after Loki had returned from one of his oft-ascribed disappearances, they had sat here together, drunkenly – so drunk had Loki been, more so than Fandral, that he had allowed Fandral to lie his head in Loki’s lap as they spoke.

So long ago was that happy memory – so long.

“Fandral,” Thor says quietly, and Fandral turns to look at him. The prince stands tall, his expression serious. “I did not mean to ruin your good mood.”

“Nay, sire, worry not,” Fandral replies, giving a polite nod of his head. “I find myself oft assailed of low mood, as of late. You are the same, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Indeed,” Thor agrees, his voice a quiet rumble. He seats himself upon a heavy stone cushioned with moss, and he runs his hands through his hair. They are on the edge of Asgard’s capital, at a small tavern well-used to the patronage of Thor and his Warriors Four, although this eve it is he and Fandral only. “You oughtn’t spare Loki so much thought.”

“Am I so transparent?” Fandral asks, almost bitterly. He sighs, his hand rubbing hard over his chin and his jaw, and he looks to the sky once more, beseeching the stars, the _Norns_ , even, to heal his wandering mind. “Loki and I were friends, Thor. He had few others. I cannot simply put him from my mind like a book upon a shelf.”

“He betrayed us all,” Thor says, his voice heavy. “Fandral, he betrayed Asgard.”

“So he did,” Fandral says softly. _Good on him_ , he almost says. What in the name of the heavens is wrong with him? He thinks of the Allfather’s face on that lonesome statue, spattered with black ink, and he sighs, putting his head in his hands. “I can’t help but think…” He trails off, for he fears to finish the thought in Thor’s presence. There are a great many thoughts about Loki Fandral has never finished in Thor’s presence, lest he find himself victim of Mjölnir’s fell swing, and yet gone are the days where that was Fandral’s greatest concern. He turns his head, and sees that Thor’s gaze is upon him, as heavy as a stormcloud.

“Think what?” he asks quietly. “You wouldn’t defend his invasion of Midgard?”

“Of course not,” Fandral mutters, shaking his head. “You know I have as much affection for the mortals of that realm as you. But, my dear friend… Loki never had dreams of ruling anywhere. You know as well as I do that when ordinarily he fled this place, going off to places unknown… Why, you collected him a handful of times, did you not? When had he ever sought out a position of power?”

“He changed.”

“But _why_?” Thor stands, his shoulders squaring, and he levels a glare in Fandral’s direction, but Fandral continues. “Thor, why should he suddenly wish so desperately to rule a realm of mortals? Why would he use this _Tesseract_ to do it? Why ally himself with unthinking monsters of a distant planet without sun?”

“What are you suggesting?” Thor asks, lowly, his voice scarce more than a growl.

“I don’t know,” Fandral mutters. “Merely… For such a long time, Thor, Loki has played at mischief. Even his most dreadful games have never involved murder, let alone city-wide destruction on a far-off shore.” Thor’s face falls, and he twists his lips. His cloudy eyes are suddenly shining in the light. “My friend, I did not mean—”

“Pray, speak no further, Fandral,” Thor says harshly. “I would speak of this no more. Loki is in chains, and there is naught more to be done.”

“But if this mischief was not of his design—”

“It matters not. The Allfather has decreed he be imprisoned: naught shall change that, least of all such idle chatter.”

“Do you truly have such faith in him? Even—” Fandral shocks back as Thor abruptly invades his space, his arm pressing hard against Fandral’s chest, just under his neck, and Fandral exhales shakily as he is reminded of precisely how Thor’s size dwarfs his own, how small and weak he is in comparison to his good friend.

“You speak unwisely, dashing one,” Thor says in a dread whisper. “Even I cannot defend you if you would profane the name of the Allfather.” Pain burns in Thor’s eyes, and Fandral takes a step back, bowing low to hide his conflicted expression.

“I would never, my prince,” he says. He lies. “Come, let us back to the tavern.”

“Indeed,” Thor says. In neither of their tones is mirth to be found.

☾❅☼❅☉❅☼❅☽

_“Won’t you kiss me, my prince?”_

_“I am not your prince,” Loki says, and he presses his head further back against the wall, yet his hands reach outward, playing with the strings of Fandral’s blouse. His expression is the very image of inner conflict, and his thin lips are parted. “Thor is.”_

_“Ridiculous,” Fandral murmurs: his hands are either side of Loki’s head, and despite the vulnerability of the position, Loki doesn’t seem too unhappy about it. A pink flush is visible in his cheeks, and he is just tipsy enough to let Fandral look at him and enjoy it. “I’ve never wanted to kiss Thor in my life.”_

_“What would you do?” Loki asks. “If I let you?”_

_“Marry you?” Loki laughs, turning his head away, and Fandral feels his heart sink in his chest at the way his lips so downturn, his eyes turning sad. “No, Loki, I didn’t mean to upset you, I merely—” But Loki is already disentangling himself from Fandral’s arms. They are in the corridor outside Loki’s quarters, and Loki politely bows to him as he murmurs him a reserved good evening, and Fandral hears the quiet click of his door as he slips inside._

_Fandral sighs, dropping his face to the patch of wall where Loki had just been, and he feels the kiss of the cool stone against his forehead. Why, oh why, does he always say the wrong thing with Loki? Why can he never get it right?_

Fandral’s eyes open. He is lying on his side in his bedchambers, and it is as yet dark – t’is not even dawn. Reaching for a tinderbox at his bedside and lighting a candle, he sits up and runs his hand through his hair. The locks are damp with sweat, and they come back away from his face with ease. Is his mind truly so empty, as of yet, that it cannot think up dreams? That memories must suffice instead?

Taking up his candle, Fandral moves across the room, pushing open the doors of his balcony and setting the candle against the bannister, looking out over the city. Fandral’s quarters are part of an ante-building not far from the palace: he lives alone, with but a cook and a valet to care for him, and he does well in his solitude. Both Helena and Fenton care for Fandral as if he was their very own, and Fandral’s parents…

Fandral reaches out, letting the wax of the candle slide smooth over his fingers, so cooled by the night air that is little more than pleasantly warm. It is best, Fandral thinks, that he be the second son of a second son – heir to naught but money, and able to make his own name in the world.

“Fandral!” calls a voice, and he leans forward, looking down. There is Sif, a lantern in her hand and her evening cloak upon her shoulders. She looks up at him from the street, the oil lamp lighting up her features as she gives him a grin. “Are you awake so early?”

“You ought not to holler so,” Fandral calls down – a good deal more quietly. “You will wake the city.” Sif laughs, and then she is moving away, toward her own lodgings. She is only just returning after a night of revelry – ah, but Fandral ought have been at her side, oughtn’t he? Instead of abed at so early an hour, dreaming of the lost prince of Asgard.

The sky is beginning to lighten, and Fandral turns his back upon it before the sun can rise.

Blowing out his candle, he sets the wick upon his bedside table, and he falls once more abed. This time, he dreams of naught at all, and he is grateful.

☾❅☼❅☉❅☼❅☽

Holding the bouquet of flowers gently beneath his arm, Fandral waits patiently at the door to the royal library, waiting for the serving girl he had met to announce his presence. The girl returns, giving him a nod, and he steps over the threshold and into the library of the Palace of Asgard. It is a beauteous room, truly, and at its centre is a rug of deepest blue, embroidered with the constellations. This disc of floor, so enchantingly carpeted as it is, is the core of the library, for it is from here all the shelves branch out as marks on a clockface, and above it is a lovely skylight that lets in the day’s warm sun.

Many an hour had Fandral spent in this room as a child, studying alongside Thor and Loki each. Noble boys ought be friends with one another, after all, even though Fandral would never rival Thor or Loki for class.

“My lady Frigga,” Fandral says softly, and he bows very low, the cape over his shoulder brushing the ground. Lady Frigga sits upon a small, padded stool, her embroidery in her lap, and before her hovers a book upon the air, easily lifted by the grace of her seiðr.

“I was surprised indeed when Rosalind told me who called for me, young Fandral,” she says quietly, and she looks to the flowers in Fandral’s hands: a bouquet of fine lavender, hyacinth and bluebells, artfully arranged. “For me?”

“For you,” Fandral confirms, and he holds the flowers out, letting Frigga take them in her hands. She smiles, the backs of her fingers brushing the petals, and he watches her delicate nostrils flare as she inhales their lovely scent. Setting aside both her book and her sewing, she stands – so tall is she – and walks gracefully beside him.

“Come, Fandral. I shall put these in water.” Frigga walks with the most queenly grace Fandral has ever seen, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground she walks upon, and as he moves beside her he cannot quite shake the cloying melancholy that has made itself known in his very heart, cooling his lungs, dragging at his stomach… “Are you well?” Frigga’s icy eyes are settled upon his face, taking in his expression. Forcing himself from his reverie, Fandral laughs softly and hurriedly nods his head.

“Oh, indeed, Lady Frigga – I merely find myself distracted of late.”

“Distracted indeed,” Frigga murmurs, but there is no mockery to be found in her soft tones. Leading Fandral into a wide, sunlit hall, she sets her seiðr upon the air, and Fandral watches in awed fascination as ribbons of blue energy twist themselves into the shape of a glass vase. It is a beautiful show of glasswork, reflecting the sunlight that shines through it, and Frigga sets the flowers gently within the vessel, reaching for a jug of water upon the windowsill.

“And I wished to ask after the health of my queen,” Fandral adds. There must be something unconvincing in his voice, for she looks at him sardonically, one eyebrow raising. Fandral swallows.

“Just your queen?” she asks, softly. “And what of your prince?”

“Thor is my prince, my lady,” Fandral murmurs.

“Is that so?” she asks, amused. “Since when?” Fandral turns his head away, ashamed, and Frigga’s hand touches against his shoulder. Turning his gaze toward her beautiful face, he sees the sadness shining in her eyes, downturning her lined lips at their corners. “I miss him too,” she murmurs. “But I fear we are alone in that, my dear. Even my son could not admit to it.”

“I oughtn’t,” Fandral says helplessly.

“Nor I,” Frigga murmurs. Sighing, she draws a lock of auburn hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and she moves toward the window, her hands loosely clasped behind her back. Most of Loki’s bearing is tailored after his mother’s rather than that of Odin, and Fandral is painfully aware of it in this moment, seeing her silhouetted against the afternoon sun. “He killed thousands of Midgardians, and he shows not the slightest hint of regret.” Fandral frowns, feeling his lips twist.

“You’ve spoken with him? I thought him confined to the dungeons,” Fandral says. Frigga turns her head slightly, giving him a _sly_ look, and Fandral feels his lips part. “Your projections—”

“Indeed,” Frigga confirms. Her smirk fades away, and slowly she sinks to sit upon the window seat, looking out over the shining city of the capital. Fandral moves closer, seating himself at the other end of the bench, and he looks down at his hands in his lap.

“Is he well?” he asks.

“As well as one would expect,” Frigga murmurs. “The cage limits his magic somewhat – not enough to harm him, but enough to limit that which he can conjure. He cannot summon objects from elsewhere, but— Loki can easily conjure new objects from the ether. I’ve seen him weave silk upon the very air, and yet in his cage, he simply paces one way and the other, flitting from one form to the next, creating naught. He does not conjure further cushions for his hard bed – mostly he sleeps upon the ground. He does not conjure games, a chessboard, even, or pages upon which to write. He simply sits, staring into space, for hours upon end, and for the rest of his waking hours he continues his pacing.” She speaks as if she can say naught else, as if she has been able to share these secrets with no one at all, and Fandral listens intently. “For three months, it is all he does.”

“Loki never liked being constrained to the realm of Asgard,” Fandral says softly. “I can only imagine what a cell should feel like to him. I just don’t understand why he _did_ it.”

“Ever does his search for power foil him, in the end,” Frigga whispers, looking out onto the city below, and Fandral feels his brows furrow as he looks at her. _Power_?

“What power is Midgard?” The words exit his mouth before he can stop them, and Frigga’s searching gaze beseeches him continue. “I merely meant— I have lived among them myself, but Loki has never favoured their people more than others. So many times has he sojourned off-world, and he hasn’t been to Midgard for some thousand years. He never had the interest in them I had, or as Thor had. He’s never thought the realm important.”

“A throne is a throne,” Frigga says, helplessly.

“He never wished for a throne, in all the time I knew him. He always knew Thor would be king,” Fandral murmurs. “We often spoke on that, second son to second son.” And how many times, how many, had they walked together in Iðunn’s garden? “He gave up his chance a dozen times over. Marrying Angrboða, leaving on the western winds—” Frigga is looking at him with tears shining in her eyes, and immediately Fandral is upon his feet, his arm against his chest as he bows low. “My apologies, my queen, I merely meant—”

“Oh, sit _down_ , Fandral,” Frigga says impatiently, despite the thickness in her voice. “You overstep not.” Slowly, Fandral sinks down onto the cushioned seat, and he watches Frigga without turning his gaze fully upon her, as if suddenly he is not fit to look directly upon his queen. Frigga’s left hand is over her mouth, her eyes glittering with some faraway thought. “You say he truly never wanted the throne?”

“Not until he had it,” Fandral murmurs. “I merely think— I cannot presume to know Loki’s mind.”

“But you merely _think_ …?” Frigga presses.

“I know not, my lady, I could not presume to.” _And he tried to kill you_ , a thought reminds him, coming unbidden. _Have you forgotten so soon, and with such ease? He would have seen you dead, and Thor, and_ — “I merely believe his invasion of Midgard seems out-of-character. So ill-thought, and so easily overcome… I thought him a better tactician than that.”

“I too,” Frigga murmurs softly. The two of them sit in silence for some long minutes, each of them looking out of the window onto the city’s golden buildings, its white-marbled streets, its bustling roadways. Despite himself, Fandral cannot help but think how strange it is, that _Frigga_ should be able to visit Loki, and yet—

“My lady,” Fandral begins, softly. “Were I…” He closes his eyes, turning his head away. “Disregard me. I speak too plainly.”

“You would visit him,” Frigga says. “You would ask that I risk my husband’s wrath, far greater than it should be for me to visit my own son, already disobeying his direct command… For _you_ to visit him?”

“Of course not, no, I would never—”

“I’ll do it,” Frigga says mildly. Fandral’s eyes widen.

“When—” Frigga’s fingers touch his temple, and Fandral feels his head loll back against the wall.


	2. Chapter 2

“He will make you long for something as _sweet_ as pain,” the Other whispers in his ear, and Loki struggles in the grasp around his throat, tries to pull away, but he cannot. Weak and with no magic within him, his fingers grasping for seiðr that comes not to his grasp, he chokes and gasps in the tight hold, unable to draw air into his lungs and unable to have his magic move to soothe his dizzy head and take the place of oxygen in his bloodstream.

“Stop it,” he tries to say, hoarsely, desperately. “ _Unhand_ me!” Thanos’ chuckle is low against his ear, on the opposite side to the Other, and then Loki is lying on the floor of his cell, on his side, his head pressed against the floor.

The thin mattress in his cell bed is much too soft for him to sleep on, and although he lies upon it at times, its softness does not comfort him as much as it would have, once. The Casket of Ancient Winters, when Loki had touched it the final time, had unlocked the last of Odin’s magic upon him, and his very biology had… Altered. He shudders to think how his body would look in the soul forge now – he runs his fingers over the soft fabric of his light shirt, feeling the cage of ribs about his belly. How many times had he drawn his fingers slow over the cool of Angrboða’s skin, feeling his wife’s flesh cold and hard as stone, feeling all the bones she had that Loki had not. How many times had he pressed his ear to her swollen belly, listening to the slow, quiet beat of his daughter’s heart, even as Angrboða laughed her rasping laugh and complained of the heat of his face against her ribs?

“Monsters,” Loki mutters to himself, and he slowly stands from the ground. Jötnar have hard flesh, like stone – an extra layer of tensile muscle-like tissue serves to separate the epidermis from the mobile muscle below, insulating them from the heat or allowing it in. No wonder Loki has always been so _skinny_ , never putting weight anywhere but his thighs and backside. Taking up a crystal glass from the table beside him, he hurls it over his shoulder to hit against one of the two stone walls of his cell, and he grin a savage satisfaction when it shatters into pieces.

“You shan’t get another, prisoner,” a passing Einherjar says archly. Immediately, Loki’s seiðr reaches out, reconstituting the glass as one whole: with it, he toasts the guard. Scoffing, he walks away, and Loki sets the goblet roughly against the table, walking irritably to the other end of his cell… And then turning on his heel and walking once more.

He hates the smallness of the little room, with its gold-webbed open walls on two sides, letting him see the Einherjar that pass him by and look upon him with scorn, and yet he has no other option. Sitting still only makes him tear at his own skin, dig his thumb over his own lips and tongue, makes him _ache_ for destruction, for creation, _something!_

And Norns, he is starving. The cell allows him more of his magic than the Tesseract had, and yet Loki feels ever constrained by the force of the magic against his own seiðr, keeping him imprisoned in more ways than one. Pacing serves to release some of his frenetic energy, but his veins feel ever too tight for the blood that pumps through them, and he wishes he could tear out his _hair_ —

“Loki?” Loki’s head whips to the side. Fandral stands there, dressed in his light clothes, his cape over his shoulder, his sword nowhere to be seen… And yet it is Mother’s energy that radiates from the illusion. Taking a step forward, Loki reaches out his hand, testing the seiðr, to feel it, to be sure, and his initial thoughts are confirmed – yes, Mother’s. Fandral tries to touch his hand, and the illusion sweeps right through Loki’s fingers, making Fandral gasp.

“Leave me,” Loki says sharply. “I oughtn’t have visitors.” Fandral remains silent, looking at Fandral with his blue eyes soft, his lips parted.

“This is a most curious sensation,” Fandral murmurs, and he glances to the two open walls of the cell, where the magical netting is transparent. “Surely your guards can see me?”

“No,” Loki says quietly, and he slowly slides to the ground, occupying himself with the stretching exercises he has long-since pursued to keep himself nimble and limber. He feels Fandral’s gaze upon him, feels the steady weight of it, and then he feels the difference when Fandral turns to glance around the contents of his cell, taking it in. “Why are you here?”

“I was speaking with Lady Frigga. She seemed rather keen to allow you visitation from someone other than herself.”

“Sentimental woman,” Loki mutters, and he feels the burn in his spine as he straightens, setting his wrist entirely upon his palms. The prisoner in the next cell, a burly Nakomian, jeers, and Loki responds by slipping artfully into a horizontal split, making the ugly sound stop upon his tongue. Mockery so easily turns to hunger, when one has been locked up so long. Fandral’s hand goes to his hip, where no sword rests – no weaponry in the palace – and Loki hums, amused. “Going to protect my honour through two magical shields, are you? And how will you do that, _ghost_?”

“You oughtn’t be here, amongst these rabble.”

“Why not?” Loki asks, bending his elbows before pushing himself up once more, shifting his weight from his flat palms onto the tips of his fingers. “I have no title. I’m as much rabble as he is. Besides, the ring through his lip denotes rank: he’s a noble on Nakom.” Fandral frowns at him, and Loki moves to one hand to meet his gaze better, arching his eyebrows.

“You’ve been to— To Nakom, then?”

“I’m worshiped on Nakom,” Loki replies, and he drops neatly into a roll, standing to his feet once more. Fandral is staring at him, and Loki wonders why he feels the need to tell him, why he feels the need to _divulge_ such a secret, when he has never told anybody where he goes, when he is not upon Asgard.

“As what?” Fandral asks, softly.

“Why are you here, Fandral?” Fandral hesitates, looking away. Loki watches him, for a long few moments: Fandral is hale and hearty, his hair tousled, his moustache twirled artfully. As ever, a dandy, and a fop. And yet there is a melancholy about him, a quiet sadness that unsettles Loki, makes him feel ill in his bones. “You oughtn’t worry after me, you idiot. I nearly killed you. We are not friends.”

“Aren’t we?” Fandral asks in a whisper. Is he truly so naïve? Loki levels him with a look, pushing as much disgust as he possibly can into his expression. Fandral is, and always has been… Complicated. Undoubtedly, Fandral has ever liked him more than Hogun, or Volstagg, or Sif, but— Friends? He and Fandral? Loki has been silent too long, staring at him too long, because something in Fandral’s face is changing. _That_ expression Loki knows well, and it makes him turn away from him.

“I have no need of your pity. Leave me.”

“I’m hardly in a position to,” Fandral murmurs, quietly. Loki feels the illusion shift, feels it step closer, and then Fandral’s ghost is nearly behind him. He doesn’t try to reach out this time. “It seemed strange.”

“What did?”

“That you should invade Midgard. You’ve never had much affection for the Midgardians.” Loki stiffens, and he feels his eyes widen, feels his jaw set into place. Suddenly there is bile high in his throat, acrid against the back of his tongue, and he swallows hard.

“Indeed not,” he says, airily, turning upon his heel. “I did it to anger Thor. They are his playthings, are they not?”

“No more than they are mine,” Fandral says, simply. “Besides, to _rule_ Midgard… Why should you want to do that?” Loki’s cold blood feels hot, and he wishes he had somewhere to run to, wishes he could smack Fandral away as he could if the man were only solid, wishes he had some way to _escape_.

“Why, haven’t you heard?” Loki says in a dread whisper. “I’m quite mad.”

“What are you frightened of? Your father?” Fandral asks, his expression soft and full of concern. Loki feels _rage_ , but there is no damage he can do to an illusion, and there is no way for him to force his mother’s magic from the cell if she is projecting it here. His powers are so _limited_ , and although no shackles actually show upon his wrists, he can feel them within himself. And how should Fandral know? How would Fandral, of _all_ people, presume to understand Loki’s motivations when his own mother ( _but she’s not your mother, is she?_ ), his own brother ( _Thor is no more your brother than the moon is_ ) do not?

Loki drops against the too-soft mattress of his cot, and he faces the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. Fandral draws closer once more, and he feels the ghost of him sit awkwardly upon the edge of the mattress.

“Why did you do it?” Fandral asks softly, and Loki stares at the white wall before him. He thinks of Thanos’ magic drawing him out of the void – a chunk of the Bifrost had hit Loki as he’d fallen, nearly decapitating him in the fall, and he’d _expected_ to die, he’d _wanted_ to—

But he’d awoken looking at two faces, one blue and one green as they peered down at him with detached curiosity, and then Thanos… Thanos’ grip around his throat, Thanos’ magic surging in Loki’s veins and shackling his own—!

“It doesn’t matter,” Loki whispers. “It matters only that I am here now, imprisoned, and caught for my crimes.”

“Answer me one question,” Fandral whispers back. “Answer me one question, truthfully, and I’ll go.” Loki is silent. “Did you want to invade Midgard?” Loki turns his face to the side, and he makes eye contact with Fandral, keeping his gaze.

“Yes,” he lies, his voice firm.

“I don’t believe you,” Fandral says immediately. Loki lets out a groan of frustration, and he drags himself off the mattress, moving right _through_ Fandral’s ghost and moving into the main part of the room. Irritation is hot in his veins, but more than that, he feels genuine _fear_. The thought of being discovered, being drawn out from his cage – and then to be questioned as to Thanos, who now has no way of _tracking_ the Tesseract, not when it is safely ensconced in the bowels of Asgard… Were he to be questioned, undoubtedly Father or Thor would feel the need to draw it out, and such would be their undoing. “You can’t stay here,” Fandral decides, sharply. “I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but— You don’t deserve this.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Loki mutters.

“I never have,” Fandral says proudly. It is intended as a jest, something to make Loki laugh, but it only sours his mood further. This is not a mead hall, where the two of them might exchange jibes and boasts as the party rages on about them – this is serious, and Loki does not _deserve_ to be treated as Fandral’s equal. “Loki,” Fandral says softly, seriously. Loki hates Fandral’s face when it becomes serious – there is something about his handsome features that remains warm, and yet distant, reserved. When Fandral is serious, he looks like the noble he truly is, second son or not, and it makes Loki’s very _skin_ ache.

“Yes?”

“Do you hate Asgard?”

“You oughtn’t ask questions you know the answers to,” Loki says softly. “Least of all because you hate the answers.”

“I don’t hate it,” Fandral murmurs. “I wouldn’t hate any feeling of yours, regardless of how little I shared it.”

“How little indeed,” Loki whispers. Fandral stares at him, and Loki wonders if he is remembering what Loki himself is remembering – the half-dozen or so times Fandral had come close enough to kiss him, and Loki had denied himself the pleasure of returning the touch. The half-dozen or so times that, knowing that inevitably allowing Fandral to touch him would lead to his public debasement or humiliation, Loki had slid out from beneath Fandral’s warmth despite aching for it. And now, ever more so – here Loki stands, cold-blooded and _monstrous_ in his flesh, no matter how he masks it with an Æsir skin. “I only hate Asgard,” Loki murmurs, his declaration laid out as a meagre offering, “as much as Asgard hates me. It is a mirror of my link to Odin, in a way.”

This is the answer Fandral sought, Loki suspects – or the answer he expected, if not that. Fandral’s expression freezes but for a moment, and then a kind of determination comes into the shine of his blue eyes.

Loki frowns. “No, don’t look like that—”

“I’m getting you out of here,” Fandral decides. Loki feels nausea unfurl in the pit of his stomach, nausea and _fear_ , but Fandral seems not at all unsettled. 

“Is that so?” Loki asks in a whisper.

“Yes,” Fandral says, and his eyes glitter with arrogance and warmth alike. And then his ghost is fading, and Loki is alone.

☾ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☉ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☽

Fandral comes to consciousness with a gasp, and immediately the Lady Frigga’s hand is upon his shoulder: she brings a goblet to Fandral’s mouth, and unthinking in his obedience, Fandral drinks. He is grateful to taste water instead of wine, washing cool over his dry mouth, and he feels the oddity of _physicality_ , now that he is returned to it. Projected as he had been into Loki’s cell, there had been the sensation of weightlessness, as if at any moment he might just float off—

“I feel dizzy,” Fandral mumbles.

“That is normal,” Frigga murmurs, and she draws the goblet away. Inhaling slowly, Fandral feels the strangeness of having lungs once more, feeling oxygen within himself… “The more one practises, the more natural it becomes. I can project myself whilst remaining conscious elsewhere, in a meditative state. And Loki, of course… Well. There is very little limit to what Loki’s seiðr can accomplish, when he has the freedom to unleash it.”

Guiltily, Fandral recalls the decision he’d made, the decision he’d blurted out where Loki could hear it – to break him out. To commit treason against the crown of Asgard, and all in the aid of its greatest enemy.

“Could you hear our conversation?” Fandral asks softly. Frigga frowns, leaning back on her heels, and she slowly shakes her head.

“No, of course not – I was focused on ensuring you were breathing well, and healthy. Why, was he…” Frigga trails off, her lips downturning into a small frown that ill-suits her beautiful face, but seems well-practised as of late. “He was cruel to you?”

“No,” Fandral murmurs. “No more than usual.”

“That’s still rather a lot.” Fandral laughs, a little weakly, and he stands on shaky legs. Frigga steps forward, setting her hands on his shoulders – Frigga is so tall, taller than Fandral himself, and on a level with Thor, in all truth. “Rest, Fandral. Take a moment.” Fandral sighs, closing his eyes for just a second.

“I asked him a dozen questions, and yet I feel I have fewer answers than I began with.”

“Talking with Loki is like that,” Frigga murmurs. Fandral opens his eyes to look at her, and he sees that Frigga’s expression has changed. Gone is her frown, replaced with the tiniest of fond smiles, a smile full of heartache, but a smile nonetheless. “He won’t accept my apologies.”

“What could you have to apologise for?”

“I knew the secret as much as Odin did,” Frigga murmurs. “So did Heimdall – so did all of the elder gods. Every one of us betrayed him, in keeping such a basic facet of his own self from him.” Frigga’s voice is full of regret, and her hands slip from Fandral’s shoulders. She moves away from him, toward the window, and she sets her hands upon the sill, looking out over the city of Asgard where it sprawls beneath them. Fandral feels a bitter taste in his mouth as he thinks of the ink he had spattered on Odin’s statue, as he thinks of his desperate _anger_ where the Allfather is concerned.

“You aren’t like the king,” Fandral says, at length. “You are caring, you… You only ever wished to spare Loki from harm.” Frigga turns her head, looking at Fandral with a tortured look in her eyes, and she presses her lips together tightly.

“You truly… Is that what each of you think, Thor’s band of friends? You think Odin does not care for Loki?” There is such desperate pain in Frigga’s voice that Fandral feels himself recoil slightly.

“My lady…” But he knows not what else to say. Fandral knows more than most on Asgard how harshly Odin has treated Loki all his life – always expecting more of him, and rarely praising him if not praising Thor in the same breath. He recalls how angrily Odin had once scolded Loki, when he and Fandral had been sneaking in the armoury – how Loki had scrambled back from his father’s furious tirade, how he had _shook_ …

Frigga sighs, clutching her hands before her belly, pressing them against her stomach. “He was always… You aren’t a father, are you, Fandral?”

“No, my lady,” Fandral says quietly. He thinks of Marian, thinks of how she had cried, morning after morning, as realisation slowly set in, as each of them realised they would not bear children with one another, no matter how they tried. It makes Fandral’s heart ache with regret to think on it even now. “I… To sire children is not my destiny, it seems.”

“It is an unthinkable agony, to have children,” Frigga whispers. “Your heart is so full of love, so full of desperate care, that it is difficult to stand – you constantly think of what you could do better, how you might improve their lives, how you might _help_ them. What you might teach them. And Odin, he always… He only ever wanted to protect Loki, you know. More than I did, most of the time. He couldn’t stand what he had done, that he had deceived Loki through his childhood, but Asgard despises his kind so much – he knew to reveal it would be to drive a knife through Loki’s very heart, and he couldn’t bear to do it. And for it to be revealed in so awful a fashion, so sudden, and with our position in Jötunheimr more precarious than ever…” There are tears shining in Frigga’s eyes, and Fandral steps forward, offering her his handkerchief with a sweeping flick of his wrist, unable to tone down the automatic pageantry of the movement, but Frigga does not seem to mind.

She takes the handkerchief, daubing at her shining eyes.

“He does care,” Frigga whispers. “More than I can say.”

“Loki doesn’t think he does,” Fandral murmurs.

“He does,” Frigga says, sharply. “Loki knows that Odin… Loki knows Odin loves him.

“My lady,” Fandral says helplessly. “He _doesn’t_. The Allfather, to Loki, is his gaoler, his foe… He thinks Odin hates him.” Frigga lets out a helpless, desperate sob, and Fandral puts his hand upon her arm: when Frigga bows her head, lays her face against his shoulder, Fandral lets her. Keeps one steadying hand on the arm of his queen, so rarely undone by emotions, and feels her sob.

 _It should be Thor here,_ Fandral thinks, desperately, guiltily. _If not Loki himself_.

“It isn’t your fault,” Fandral whispers, and Frigga laughs, bitterly. The way she moves her head is uncannily like the way he has seen Loki’s head shift a thousand times, and he feels his heart skip a beat.

“Of course it is,” Frigga says. “It is all our faults. How could he be anything less than what he is? Every time he would go from us, I would pray for his return… How could I do that, when I knew he was so unhappy here? How could I send Thor to find him and bring him home, time after time, knowing this was never truly his home in the first place?”

“You love him,” Fandral says. “It hurt to see him gone from your side. How could you feel guilty for feeling a mother’s love?” For a second, Frigga teeters on the cusp of bursting into more tears, but something holds her back from the brink. She holds Fandral’s handkerchief, embroidered at its edges and embossed with his initial, tightly in her hand, and she stares into the ether at something Fandral cannot know, cannot even begin to guess at.

“A gaoler, you said,” Frigga murmurs. “He thinks of us as his gaolers. What use is a mother’s love as that?”

“I didn’t mean you, my lady—” Frigga takes up one palm, the hand not tight around Fandral’s tear-stained handkerchief, and she holds it flat – a motion for him to stop his golden tongue in its tracks. Her hand shakes.

“Do you love him?” Frigga asks, suddenly. “For many a year I have watched you watch him, Fandral, watched your face when he has rejected you. Do you love him?”

“I do,” Fandral says, a little more hurriedly than he would like. “As a friend, as a shield-mate. Even now, after this betrayal.”

“And what else?” Frigga asks, sharply. The question is a demand, and her blue eyes study his face – it occurs to Fandral that he has never seen such emotion in Frigga’s face before, never seen her show more than a tightening of a muscle or a small, warm smile… Is this where Loki learned his masks from? From his mother, all along? “What you sacrifice for Loki’s sake?”

Understanding pools like molten gold in the pit of Fandral’s belly, warming him from within and making his skin prickle with uncomfortable heat. “You ask if I would break him from his bonds… If I would take him with me, far from Asgard. I—” Ought he tell her? _Yes_. He must. Fandral lets out a helpless sound. “My lady, I’ve already promised him that I will.”

Frigga exhales, all at once. “I’ll help you.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Fandral says. “This is treason of the highest order.”

“I am half of the crown,” Frigga replies, drawing herself to her full height, and Fandral swallows as he feels a thrum of power in the room, Frigga’s seiðr coiling in her bones. “And I will be the mother I ought _always_ have been. We can tell no one, Fandral… You and I will formulate this plan.”

“But Heimdall—”

“Heimdall will not defy his queen. Go from here, Fandral,” Frigga says softly. “Return… Return three days hence, come nightfall. If you do not, if you cannot—” Frigga sighs, softly. “I will understand.”

“I will be here, my lady,” Fandral promises softly, and he takes his leave.

☾ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☉ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☽

On the first day, Fandral packs his belongings away. Each of his books is neatly set upon their shelves; the clothes he has not set in his travelling pack are set under enchanted cloths that keep away moths and the like, and they are folded into his chest of drawers and the bottom of his wardrobe. Each of Fandral’s quills and pots of ink pots – there are dozens scattered about his home, despite the modesty of its size – is set into the drawer of his desk.

Every half-completed poem is either burned, or set in a folder in the same desk.

His butler watches all of this with quiet comprehension, and his melancholy understanding is palpable as he says softly, “Going somewhere, my lord?”

“For a time,” Fandral says. He says nothing more: Fenton does not press. He’s too good of a butler for that, and Fandral almost wishes he wasn’t.

He tosses and turns that night, unable to sleep. Standing from his bed, he sits at his desk, and he writes his every desperate thought upon the page, aiding their fluidity with wine.

The next morning, bleary-eyed and in pain with the hangover, his mouth as dry as the deserts of Vanaheim, he sees that he has already burned the parchments in his fireplace. _That bad, hmm?_

But he must go to the palace, two days hence. He must.

☾ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☉ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☽

The second day, Thor, Sif, and the Warrior Three ride out to a village to the north, to deal with some sort of kobold that had made its home in their well, and without seiðr to aid their attack, it takes nearly the whole day to coax the monster from the stone and defeat it with a blade made of rusted iron.

As they sit in a tavern afterwards, Fandral stares down at the iron blade in his hand, stained with the kobold’s black, ichorous blood.

“Loki would have loved that,” he says quietly. No one responds.

This night, none of them really imbibes heavily: each of them settles in silence, nursing their beverages with slow, pensive intent. Hogun is watching Fandral for a long few minutes before he says, at least an hour after one of them had last spoken a word, “Loki… Would not have helped us. He would have stood and watched as we floundered, just as we did today.”

Volstagg laughs, shortly. “He would have, wouldn’t he? He would have… No, that isn’t true, he would have intervened. He would have tripped you over twice more than you already fell in the dirt, Fandral.”

Fandral laughs, surprised at how easily the sound comes from between his anxious lips, and Volstagg laughs with him. Very gently, Hogun’s hand touches Fandral’s shoulder, and Fandral whips his head to look at Hogun, uncomprehending. Hogun’s lips, always so unsmiling, are curved just slightly at their edges, up into the smallest of smiles.

He couldn’t possibly know – none of them knows. Thor’s ghost of a smile is fading fast, and Sif remains unsmiling, unfond of the man that always scorned her.

“I will be travelling afield myself, soon,” Fandral says quietly. “To Nidavellir.”

“Really?” Thor asks, leaning forward. He seems eager to distract the party from talk of Loki. “For what purpose?”

“Long-since have I exhausted the libraries of Asgard, and even of Alfheim,” Fandral says. “I would take my leave of adventuring for a while, and take up another long-held affection of my heart.”

“You would study the poetry of swarves?” Sif asks, and she grins. “Truly?”

“Of course,” Fandral says, nodding his heads.

“Why now?” Hogun asks, lowly. “Have you set your eye upon a dwarven maiden?”

“There are _no_ dwarven maidens,” Volstagg says knowledgeably, and Fandral laughs, quietly, shaking his head. Already, he has practised his deception in his head.

“No, no… Merely that Nidavellir is a place of craftsmanship, and beauty. I must take my leave of Asgard’s natural beauty for a time and admire that which is _made_ , not merely grown and then ruled over.” Fandral meets Thor’s eyes for just a moment, and he sees the remembrance of their moment in the wood together, sees the glitter of uncertainty… But Thor would not stop him. Absence is better than treason, in his mind.

If only he knew how Fandral is to dive into both.

☾ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☉ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☽

On the third day, Fandral has errands to complete, and he attends to them with care. “I will be taking travel to Svartalheim this week,” Fandral tells his armourer conversationally, as he takes back his sword, which he had handed in to have a minor flaw in its hilt fixed. The smith raises his eyebrows, leaning back on heels.

“Svartalheim, my lord? To what end?”

“I hear rumours of a monster roaming the dead land there,” Fandral says gravely, buckling his sword about his waist once more. “There are worries it will find a portal, that it will come through – to Vanaheim, or to Alfheim. Best that I destroy the beast before it can go on to do more harm.”

“You are very brave, my lord,” Garth says quietly, and he bows his head politely to Fandral as he takes his leave.

As he stables Gilly in the palace stables, he says offhandedly to the two stablehands, “Aye, I know not when I shall return. I have business in Vanaheim.”

“Vanaheim, Fandral?” the younger says eagerly, looking up at him with curiosity. “To what end?” Fandral winks.

“T’is a woman, lad. It always is.”

His barber, his grocer, and his baker each think him soon to be abroad in Alfheim. His tailor thinks him returning to Midgard, on a pilgrimage to visit the grave of his wife. His cobbler and his accountant are each told what Fandral had told his band of warriors, that he is travelling to Nidavellir.

Finally, he sits Helena and Fenton down at their modest dining table, and he sets two pouches of gold on the table. Helena and Fenton share the look he has seen them share a thousand times, when they think Fandral is being overly bold, when they think he is to risk his life.

“My lord,” Helena says softly.

“I will be gone for some time,” Fandral says. “Years, I expect. Perhaps even decades.”

“Might we ask where?” Fenton asks.

“You might ask,” Fandral says. “But I can’t tell you.” _Because I don’t know myself_ , he thinks. But he knows enough to know that he will be nowhere within the Nine Realms, that they will be somewhere else entirely… And thus has he spread his conflicting stories all about the city, the better to confuse the Einherjar that investigate Loki’s escape.

“Will you be safe?” Fenton asks.

“I don’t know,” Fandral answers.

“Is there a risk of your dying?” Helena asks.

“Probably, but I’ll try to mitigate it.” Fenton sighs, harshly, but then he rubs his fingers over the balding spot on the top of his head, and Fandral looks helplessly between them both, his butler and his cook, and yet… They are so much more to him, in truth. “I’m sorry,” Fandral says softly. I must do this.”

“We know,” Fenton murmurs. “You wouldn’t be so serious if you felt you had a choice.”

“Duty is a harsh mistress,” Fandral murmurs.

He hugs them each before he leaves: Helena and Fenton each press firm kisses to the front of Fandral’s brow, and then they let him go. Fandral wonders if he will ever see them again, and then decides not to wonder about anything else.

☾ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☉ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☽

Fandral creeps into the palace of Asgard via the trellis outside of Loki’s bedroom window. Scaling the white-painted wood with care, feeling the thorns of high-growing roses dig at the leather of his gloves, he scales it like a ladder – he has done this just twice before, each time meeting Loki on his balcony… That had been millennia ago, when Fandral and Loki were scarcely more than boys, and merely wished to go on speaking when their respective curfews had been met.

Slipping into Loki’s bedchamber from the door of the balcony, he is astonished by how lived-in his rooms yet feel. Papers scatter across Loki’s desk, including letters and notes to himself half-written, and two books are open upon his bed, likely on the pages Loki left them on.

Fandral feels sick, and he steps slowly out into the corridor. He nearly yelps when he walks directly into Heimdall, who is standing like a stone outside Loki’s quarters, _waiting_ for him. Fandral stares up at the watcher, expecting some sort of wise word, some advice for him to cease this nonsense… But none comes.

Heimdall merely tips his head in one direction, gesturing for Fandral to walk with him, and Fandral does. Lady Frigga is bent over a cauldron of bubbling liquid, and when she sees Fandral, she inhales, sharply, as if she believed Fandral would not come.

“Come here,” Frigga whispers. “I need a lock of your hair.” Fandral reaches up, cutting a tousled curl of dark, blond hair away from the side of his head, astonished by how easily obedience comes, when he has always taken such _care_ with his head of flaxen curls… He hands her the tuft of hair, and she drops it into the golden. The liquid within is a dark, shining purple, almost metallic in its sheen, and it smells of the spices that are burned at funerals.

Fandral swallows.

“You will take this vial with you,” Frigga says softly, “and you will draw a symbol with it on Loki’s back, when you have him with you, where you land. You must do it before he wakes, Fandral. You _must_.”

“What will it do?” Fandral says as he leans over the page Frigga is sketching upon for him, staring at the symbol she draws. A circle with several segmented lines catching through it, in an old, old language… “That’s the Jötunn script, isn’t it?”

“It will bind you to him, so that he cannot hide from you, so that he cannot flee. But I must draw the same symbol on _you_ : he will be able to do to the same.” Fandral nods, immediately, and his hands go to his blouse and jerkin, beginning to unlace them both. Frigga looks over Fandral’s shoulder, meeting gazes with Heimdall as if to prove some point, as if Heimdall had disagreed with her already—

Heimdall had thought Fandral would protest, then. If only.

“When he wakes, you said,” Fandral says as Frigga draws some of the hot, strange liquid over his shoulders, curving over his skin. It sticks to his flesh like resin glue, clinging gummy to him, and he hisses out a grunt of not-pain as Frigga connects the two ends of the circle, and the symbol seems to dig its way into him, as if its ink is tracing right down to the muscle, down to the _bone_. “Will he be unconscious?”

“Yes,” Heimdall says gravely. “We poisoned his evening meal.”

“You _what_!?”

“It was the only way to remove him from his cell,” Frigga murmurs, pushing Fandral to return his shirt to his back, and Fandral frantically draws it back on, lacking it tight before reaching for his jerkin. “He is currently laid in a sickbed in the prison infirmary… He has been dosed with an antidote – you simply need to carry him from the palace.” _Simply! Simply, she says!_  “There is a portal down on the beach, toward the cave you and Loki played in as children – you remember?”

“Yes,” Fandral says softly. Well he remembers the little cavern, oft-lit by candles, where Loki would hide from Thor and from his tutors alike. He hadn’t realised Frigga had known of it, but… He glances at Heimdall. Of course.

“The portal will set you on a planet named Nakom, many millions of light years from any of the realms on the Yggdrasil,” Frigga says. “Loki has ties there, and I was able to open the portal, but it will not last long. You have some three hours to get him these and get the two of you abroad.”

“And then the two of us shall be in exile,” Fandral whispers. “Forevermore.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Frigga says.

“Of course I do. We’re all to blame for Loki’s situation – you said that, my lady. Why should I be exempt?” Frigga stares at him, her blue eyes searching his expression for some sign of weakness, for some sign that Fandral will draw back, now that he has made his decision… But of course, there isn’t. “It will be easy, my lady: I will take your son to safety.”

☾ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☉ ❅ ☼ ❅ ☽

Perhaps it was that statement that damned him, Fandral thinks, some four hours later, as his shaking hands daub the symbol he had memorised onto Loki’s back. Loki’s breathing is shallow, but at least he is _asleep_ for now. Perhaps to say it would be _easy_ was a curse on himself the Norns could not ignore.

Escaping from Asgard was _far_ from easy.

And now? What _now_?

Fandral leans back on his heels, setting the cannister of strange pigment into his pocket and staring out over broad deserts spanning their every side. He and Loki had landed hard in the dirt, and look as Fandral might on their every side, he sees naught but more desert. Loki is dressed scantly, only loose leggings over his legs, and Fandral must get him clothed soon – with this desert sun, it will _burn_ him…

He watches as the symbol digs itself into Loki’s flesh, becoming solid, like metal, for a moment. And then it sticks like paint – like a tattoo – to Loki’s skin – Fandral traces over it, curious, and finds it does not stick to his fingers, does not even smudge.

“Loki,” Fandral says, turning the other man over. Loki’s head lolls back onto the sand, but his eyes flutter open. He groans in pain, clutching at his belly, and already Fandral can see his skin changing. “No, no, no shapeshifting, I need you—”

But Loki’s very _flesh_ is fading away, replaced by a shining expanse of glass instead of skin. Fandral stares through Loki’s now-transparent chest, where no organs are present, only blue-stained glass, and on Loki’s back, he can see the symbol in its inverse. Loki is much taller like this, Fandral realises as he moves to stand – he is nearly eight feet tall, and he towers over Fandral, two great horns on either side of his head, as if he is a Nakomian wrought in glass.

“Loki?”

“I’m not Loki,” Loki says. His voice is not like Loki’s, either – it sounds like howling winds, the sort of winds that are native to a desert like this. Sitting up, Loki looks around, and Fandral watches him cautiously, seeing his eyes shift in their sockets. They are like sandstorms, turbulent and dark with swirling energy, and in Loki’s mouth, inside his glass cheeks, is the burst of what looks like a tiny spark… Fandral has ever seen a man made of glass before. It hadn’t struck him as possible.

“Then who are you, my friend?”

“We are far from civilisation,” Loki murmurs quietly. “The nearest village is some two hundred miles east.”

“Two hundred miles?” Fandral repeats, feeling dread coil in his belly. Loki, now made of _glass_ , might be able to withstand this desert heat for such travel, but Fandral… “I thought you would be angry.”

“I am not angry,” Loki says distractedly. “Come… We must walk.” He is already moving, and Fandral has to rush to keep up with him, his knapsack hanging heavy from his shoulder, and he realises, all at once, that Loki is mad – quite mad. Here they are, stranded far from Asgard, in exile, and Loki has cracked like a loon.

“You aren’t— Loki,” Fandral says.

“I am _not_ Loki,” Loki repeats.

“Well, I need Loki right now!” Fandral snaps, and Loki leans back slightly, tilting his head to the side as he looks down at Fandral.

“This isn’t Loki’s land,” Loki says, slowly. “There is no need for him here.”

“ _I_ need him,” Fandral repeats, near-hysterically. Loki hesitates, but then he assents: the glass bleeds away like water, and there Loki stands before him, pale-faced and perplexed, looking at Fandral with distant bafflement on his face.

“You oughtn’t have done this, you know,” he says quietly. “You have doomed yourself.”

“So I have,” Fandral agrees. “Two hundred miles east, you said. We cannot walk that far. The sun alone…”

“You cannot walk that far,” Loki murmurs, as if repeating Fandral’s words back to him, and then two of his fingers move to Fandral’s forehead. With a sensation like a whipcrack that _bursts_ through Fandral’s body, they are on a street of sandstone bricks, and Fandral is gasping in pain, doubling over as magic _surges_ hot through his body. Loki holds him, supports him, keeps him from falling. “It’s alright,” Loki whispers against the back of his ear. “I’m sorry. I’ll look after you.”

Fandral laughs, the sound ugly, like a bark of sound as he feels the magic sizzle from his own skin and into _Loki’s_ , feels himself left gratefully bereft of that awful energy that seems to radiate from his very _back_ (the symbol!), and he breathes heavily.

It begins to sink in, how far they are from home – Fandral has never been farther afield than Alfheim, let alone on a planet so far from the Yggdrasil… And with no way back. Oh, _Norns_. What has he done?

“It’s alright,” Loki repeats softly, and Fandral feels fatigue hit him like a wave – it isn’t natural, he _knows_ it, can feel Loki’s seiðr prickle over his skin.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Fandral protests through gritted teeth, attempting to resist Loki’s magic, attempting to keep himself awake— He fails. He falls further against Loki’s cold chest, feels Loki hold him tightly, and distantly, he hears a bell ringing.

“It’s alright,” Loki says for a third time, and his lips brush over Fandral’s hair. Fandral knows blackness, and sweet, blissed cool – an escape from the desert heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in the next chapter, the daring escape, plus more of Loki's POV! ;)

**Author's Note:**

> For my fellow DashingFrost shippers, I've now set up a [Fuck Yeah DashingFrost Tumblr](https://fuckyeahdashingfrost.tumblr.com), and I'm running a [DashingFrost week](https://fuckyeahdashingfrost.tumblr.com/post/174693891923/dashingfrost-week-2018) at the end of the month! Check it out! <3
> 
> Feel free to HMU on [Tumblr.](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com) Requests are always open.


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